When contemplating the historical efficacy of this nation’s secular shrine, the Australian War Memorial, it is best to stand out front in the middle of Anzac Parade, look up towards Mount Ainslie and imagine what was originally intended.
Anzac Parade is a 145-metre-wide, six-lane road. On Walter Griffin’s elaborate blueprint for his Canberra never built, the parade serves as the land axis linking Capital Hill, where federal parliament stands, and Mount Ainslie. A vast military parade ground—its red scoria scrunching officiously underfoot—bordered with white boxes filled with the dense, neat shrub hebe, serves as the road’s imposing median strip.
The memorial, with its Byzantine dome and Art Deco lines, nestles into the foot of Mount Ainslie with an architectural ease that Griffin might even have embraced had he lived to see it open. But the memorial was never part of the plan devised by the Germanophile and avowedly pacifist Griffins. Indeed, the whole nature of the precinct at the northern end of the land axis in the Griffin design was starkly at odds with the way world events—which is to say, history—would reshape it.
From far-away Chicago, architectural artist Marion Mahony Griffin imagined husband Walter’s vision of Canberra from atop Mount Ainslie in a beautiful grey-green, ochre, gold, brown and russet triptych drawing replete with those geometric hexagons, circles and lines, including the land axis. The memorial and the parade ground are notably absent. Indeed, this space at the base of Mount Ainslie that’s now dedicated to telling a curated, nationalistic story of an Australia at war overseas, was intended as a place of leisure—of playfulness, entertainment and delight. It was to be a German-style ‘Casino’, no less. This did not mean a place of gambling like today’s Crown palaces in Melbourne and Perth, but rather an open-air ‘mid-way pleasance’, a leisure precinct of parkland anchoring a theatre, restaurants, retail stalls, a beer garden, a zoo and an opera house.
War intervened and changed everything. As it tends to do. The Anglophile planners (former senior military men) wanted none of this European folly and frippery—no outdoor alfresco dining on some midway pleasance! And certainly no German-style beer garden now that the Kaiser was the enemy.
Most Australians are taught something of the history of Anzac and the war memorial at school. About how Charles Bean, Australia’s official World War I historian, conceived of a museum-cum-memorial dedicated to his diggers, his boys, in the early war years even as he was creating in dispatches their myth of exceptionalism while watching them fight and die at Gallipoli and, later, amid the mud and viscera of the European Western Front. War nearly killed the embryonic Canberra project along with the 62,000 Australian troops whose deaths—along with the lives of hundreds of thousands of damaged survivors—recast the peaceful optimism of the infant federation in a more sombre mould of grief and endurance. The Griffins’ midway pleasance never stood a chance amid such global and national cataclysm. So the war memorial opened in 1941, amid World War II, whose khakied victims it would also eulogise as part of the ongoing story of Anzac ‘sacrifice’.
Australian Federation in 1901 was a momentous if ostensibly peaceful affair. It is what Griffin loved about Australia, what he desired most to reflect in his design of a national capital for ‘bold democrats’. For in Australia there was none of the revolution and blood, the cordite and cold steel, that marked the emergence of republics elsewhere—the merging of colonies and independence from colonial masters. But while the coming together of discordant, competitive colonies for a common purpose was in every sense the birth of the proudly white Australian nation, it’s as if it never quite evoked sufficient narrative drama for the political storytellers. Billy Hughes latched on to Anzac from the moment of Australia’s participation in the disastrous, failed Gallipoli invasion. He turned defeat and retreat at the Dardanelles, the butchery of the Western Front abattoir, Australia’s part in the eventual Allied victory and stoic post- war reconstruction, into a whiter than white success story of national birth.
Those who’ve denied Federation its own drama, its historic tensions, conflict and bloodshed, overlook much that came between first British east coast contact in 1770 and the official end of colonial Australia in 1901. Federation of course was built on a bloody land grab—brutal wars of colonial dispossession and the successive attempted Indigenous genocide: poisonings, massacres, enslavement, rape, the stealing of traditional resources, the introduction of epidemics and the theft of children.
It is instructive that Hughes as attorney-general in the second Andrew Fisher Labor government (1910–13) said at Canberra’s foundation in 1913, ‘Here we have a symbol of nationality … the first historic event in the history of the Commonwealth we are engaged in today without the slightest trace of that race that we have banished from the face of the earth.’1 Notwithstanding that traces of a rich 100,000-plus-year civilisation somehow survived, endured and flourished, Hughes, here, had inadvertently spoken the true modern national foundation story: the building of a federation upon attempted eradication of this continent’s First Nations peoples and the theft of their land. Less than two years later, as prime minister he had in his grasp an easier, more palatable, less complicated foundation story—an Australian nation conceived in Anzac and born in the sands of Gallipoli.
In his book When We Dead Awaken: Australia, New Zealand, and the Armenian Genocide (a detailed study of Anzac historiography’s blindness to the Ottoman Empire’s orchestrated mass killing of Armenians and other minorities), James Robins writes, ‘nations are built on forgetting’:
All citizens, knowingly or unknowingly, carry this enforced silence. To engineer a useable past, we stifle that which is embarrassing or distasteful. Anything that prompts a shiver of discomfort or disquiet slips into the chasms between history. Then, heroism is embellished, tales of supremacy and victory let loose on the common consciousness.
Between them, New Zealand and Australia and the Republic of Turkey do not share much, but they do share this: the defilation, traducing and decimation of their minority indigenous populations … These barbarisms are the preconditions of the nation. Without such a process they would not exist. This is the pain in the ‘national feeling’, a pain that must be eliminated from memory. To absolve the crime at its heart, a mythology is therefore required. A miraculous tale, easily digestible, easily repeated.
Any moral doubt about that combat was long ago excised, all uneasy hearts chloroformed. The reality of a miserable, humiliating defeat was forgotten. The name Gallipoli and the memory of troops who served there were raised to the highest vaults of nationhood, but with their blood and pulped flesh and scarred minds purged, having only a shell into which the supposedly herculean, jocular qualities of the Anzac soldier were poured. The diggers’ virtues were adopted as national virtues.2
In Australia (and New Zealand) the myth is Anzac.
It stands to reason, then, that Billy Hughes’ foundational words for the national capital about a banished race were portentous of the citadel to the stylised Anzac-birther narrative that came to occupy the Griffins’ northern axis. Its displays would tell stories of Australian heroes and their heroics. Its archives (which do not deceive by omission the way its public galleries do) would, however, also harbour the unpalatable truths about our Anzac villains and their villainy.
• • •
Which brings me back to where I am standing, in the scoria expanse in the middle of Anzac Parade, looking up at the Australian War Memorial. ‘Next time you’re there look up at the flagpoles out the front,’ a former senior official of the memorial had advised me. ‘What do you see? Or not see …’
Six tall flagpoles stand sentinel across the front of the memorial. They are not of themselves remarkable; should you drive around Canberra you are likely to see at least three similar poles out the front of Commonwealth buildings such as government departments and cultural institutions. Usually the Australian flag will be flanked by the Aboriginal and the Torres Strait Islander flags. But not at the memorial. Today only the blue Australian ensign snaps on each of the six poles.
Fourteen days a year—during NAIDOC and Reconciliation weeks—the memorial makes an exception. Only then does it fly the Aboriginal and the Torres Strait Islander flags. This rankles with some current and former memorial employees. It also offends some of the memorial’s volunteer guides. A relatively recent discussion of the memorial’s governing 11-member council (eight are retired or serving senior military personnel) considered the general omission of the Indigenous flags out the front. The status quo prevailed, as it tends to at the memorial.
The memorial council is not known for its progressiveness on Indigenous issues. For much of the past two decades, amid ever greater national focus on the Australian nation’s violent continental genesis, the memorial has rejected increasing criticism over its refusal to tell the story meaningfully of the bloody post-invasion frontier battles and wars between Indigenous resist- ance fighters and the settlers, soldiers and militias who stole traditional lands and food sources. For 15 years, retired Major General Steve Gower has resisted pressure (mostly from within) to depict in the memorial displays the frontier wars that by some credible estimates killed 60,000 to 100,000 Indigenous people (as many—or more—than the number of Australian soldiers who died in World War I).
During his seven-year tenure as memorial director (2012–19), Brendan Nelson was outwardly intransigent on depicting frontier war. He argued that the battles for the Australian continent did not necessarily constitute war (debatable); did not involve locally raised military units (contested by top military historians) and therefore did not qualify under the memorial’s governing act; and that, in any event, it had somehow been determined that the National Museum of Australia was responsible for depicting these conflicts.3
But subtle contradictions and ambiguities began to convolute that message. In 2017, Nelson, perhaps the memorial’s most controversial director, mounted the (temporary) exhibition For Country, for Nation to ‘commemorate Indigenous service men and women’. It featured the art of 32 Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander artists. While some strongly alluded to the frontier wars that Nelson claimed are not in the memorial’s ambit to tell, and referenced Australia’s oppression of its First Nations peoples, the exhibition’s focus was Indigenous personnel who served under Australian or British flags.
Tensions were palpable between the exhibition’s stated intention and what could be inferred from its allusions to the frontier wars and the obvious nexus between those who fought for country as resistance warriors or for King/Queen and Country. That same year the memorial acquired and hung three works by Aboriginal artists about frontier war. They are: Kulatangku angakanyini manta munu Tjukurpa (Country and Culture will be protected by spears) by Anangu Pitjantjatjara Yankunytjatjara (APY) lands artists, Ruby Plains Massacre 1 by Rover Thomas, and Queenie McKenzie’s Horso Creek Killings.4
These acquisitions may reflect a desire by some memorial curators (or perhaps by those more senior) for a change of institution policy on the frontier wars. They give visual expression to some strong sentiments inside the memorial about the intellectual inconsistency of lauding the efforts of ‘black diggers’ while denying agency to Indigenous warriors who defended their land from white invasion.
Nelson, a former Howard government defence minister, was a controversial director for many other reasons. His legacy will be long and chequered. Weeks after stepping down as director in late 2019, Nelson took a lucrative job with weapons manufacturer Boeing. This surprised few. While he was at the memorial he courted some of the world’s biggest arms manufacturers—their products responsible for killing countless people—to sponsor the AWM. Asked if this was a legitimate part of the memorial’s remit, in 2018 Nelson said:
It certainly is. In fact I regard it as part of corporate social responsibility … you need to know that I have actively gone seeking money from these com- panies and there are a number of them that I’m very concerned won’t support us … When Australians are deployed … whether it’s into war of peacekeeping or humanitarian disaster relief we expect them to be equipped with the very best possible equipment that is available to them and I think it is extraordinarily important … that these companies have a responsibility to complete the loop, to explain what is being done in the name of our country … and also the impact it … had upon them.5
The loop? Manufacture. Sell. Deploy. Commemorate. Profit.
Nelson relished the role of Australia’s commemorator in chief. Under his guidance the memorial redefined, somewhat, the way it would meet its mandate to ‘assist Australians to remember, interpret and understand the Australian experience of war and its enduring impact on Australian society’.
One of his initiatives brought federal MPs together at the memorial at the beginning of each yearly parliamentary session to pay homage to Anzac in a quasi-religious ceremony at what is, according to the current prime minister, ‘our nation’s most sacred place’.6 Individual politicians, meanwhile, were invited privately—though usually with a camera present!—to sweep the dust from the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Meanwhile, Nelson chose a long- contested line from the Australian National Anthem—‘for we are young and free’—to advertise his memorial. It was a direct and, by inference, blithely provocative affront to the sensibilities of many Indigenous people who have long taken exception to this white-washing line in the anthem, which was recently changed to ‘for we are one and free’. The offending words have since been removed from the front of the memorial.
He also introduced a daily last post ceremony (as ambassador to the European Union, Nelson regularly attended the dusk remembrance ceremony at the Menin Gate in Ypres featuring the evocative bugler) and projected the names of Australia’s World War I dead onto the walls of the memorial. But perhaps his most controversial legacy is a proposed $500 million expansion of the memorial so that it can accommodate more military hardware in its displays and mount more exhibitions about current defence force deployments, partly on the dubious grounds that this would be therapeutic for damaged veterans.
• • •
In late 2020, the inspector general of the Australian Defence Force released a version of Justice Paul Brereton’s report into alleged war crimes in Afghanistan by members of Australia’s Special Air Service troops. The inspector general recommended 19 of the elite soldiers be further investigated by police for the alleged murder of 39 Afghan prisoners and civilians.7
Brereton’s redacted report did not name individual soldiers. However, one—Australia’s most decorated living combatant, Ben Roberts-Smith VC—had already been named in a series of Nine Entertainment reports as being under investigation by Australian Federal Police for alleged war crimes. Roberts-Smith has strenuously denied the allegations and has taken defamation action against Nine.8 The Brereton Report was described, almost invariably, by politicians and media as ‘shocking’ for its revelations about the conduct of some of Australia’s elite SAS soldiers in Afghanistan, and for the damage this would do to the reputation of this country’s defence personnel—a blight on the Anzac name, if you like. ‘This is not who we are …’ Australian Army Chief Rick Burr—who sits on the war memorial council—lamented ahead of the release of the inspector general’s report.9
But this alleged behaviour by Australian diggers, each of whom serves with the freight of Anzac mythology in their kitbag, is hardly new. If we are to learn anything from our military history, this type of murderous, inhumane behaviour on the battlefield should come as no shock.
In a compelling annexe to his report, Brereton lists a historic litany of established misdemeanours and war crimes committed by Australians. They include the ‘Surafend massacre’ (of Arabs and Bedouins in Palestine in 1918), the summary killing of wounded or captured Germans in World War I, and the executions of surrendered Japanese in World War II. The war memorial’s archives are replete with evidence of some of these crimes. But if you walk around the memorial’s displays you will see virtually nothing of them—just as you’ll see nothing of the alleged SAS crimes even though there is a long-standing exhibition dedicated to the Afghanistan deployments.
Roberts-Smith looms large over the memorial. Alongside his friend and supporter Nelson, he has been a key backer—and at times part of the public face—of the now-successful campaign to proceed with the war memorial expansion. Nelson has supported Roberts-Smith to the hilt, insisting some of the allegations about the Victoria Cross winner were merely an attempt to ‘tear down our heroes’.
‘I am very concerned that if the media pursuit of Ben Roberts-Smith and others continues … we run the risk of becoming a people unworthy of such sacrifice,’ he said before the release of the inspector general’s report.
‘But as far as I am concerned, unless there have been the most egregious breaches of the laws of armed conflict, we should leave it all alone.’
War, he reminded Australians with some understatement, ‘is a messy business’. Indeed.10
Meanwhile Kerry Stokes—the chairman of the memorial council and Roberts-Smith’s employer at Seven West Media—is underwriting the expenses relating to his employee’s legal action as well as a long public relations campaign to protect his name.
Former prime minister Tony Abbott has long been an admirer of Roberts-Smith. He too has publicly defended the soldier, warning people not to ‘judge soldiers operating in the heat of combat under the fog of war by the same standards that we would judge civilians’.Abbott is now on the war memorial council, which includes two former SAS commanders.
Any police action against those implicated in the inspector general’s report could be years away. Roberts-Smith’s defamation action continues. Twin portraits of Roberts-Smith have hung throughout the inspector general’s investigative process in pride of place at the memorial. One is Pistol Grip, a monumental and confronting 1.6 by 2.2 metre painting. It presents the imposing warrior in special forces fatigues, his arms extended in combat pose, hands gripping an invisible handgun, finger on the trigger.11
The artist Michael Zavros recalled that upon asking Roberts-Smith to adopt a fighting stance, ‘He went into this whole other mode. He was suddenly this other creature and I immediately saw all these other things. It showed me what he is capable of … it was just there in a flash.’12
It remains to be seen, of course, precisely what Roberts-Smith is capable of. In late 2020 Pistol Grip was still on display. Roberts-Smith’s uniform and military medals remained on display in the memorial’s Hall of Valour, which is dedicated to Australian VC winners. There was nothing nearby to indicate the controversy attached to the soldier.
Embedded in a wall of the memorial close to the Hall of Valour is a Byzantine mosaic ‘discovered’ by Australian troops (so says the memorial with some understatement) in a basilica at Wady Ghuzze in Palestine in 1917. The backstory of how the Shellal Mosaic came to Australia is in the memorial’s archive. But, like the history of so much Anzac conduct unbecoming, you won’t find anything near the exhibit itself explaining the stoush between Britain and Australia over what may well have been an act of looting.13
His Majesty’s Government have taken exception to the acts of looting committed by the enemy … but if valuable relics of artistic and archaeological interest are to be conveyed away from the theatres of war as trophies by British troops, it is open to question whether His Majesty’s Government will not be laying itself open to similar charges.
That is who we are. Or at least some of us.
• • •
The memorial’s World War I galleries are replete with Australians fighting in the Middle East and on the European Western Front. There is the rollcall of legendary placenames and the Australian actions there—Lone Pine and the Nek, Beersheba and Jerusalem, Fromelles, Bullecourt and Villers-Bretonneux. Victory dances with tragedy in these galleries, ‘sacrifice’ with triumph. But even with the benefit of 102 years of reflection and hindsight, there is no mention of Australian light horsemen participating in the Surafend massacre or killing German wounded and prisoners.
There is another glaring omission: any reference to the Armenian genocide and its connection to the Anzac legend, specifically to the Gallipoli invasion. For Turkey, like Australia and New Zealand, also dates its national birth to the cliffs of Gallipoli. In each case the true genesis of nationhood lies with those countries’ attempted extermination
of their indigenous peoples. In Australia it is the usurpation of Aboriginal life. In New Zealand, Maori dispossession. The rise of the modern state of Turkey, meanwhile, came on the back of the near eradication of almost all ethnic and religious minorities—chiefly the Armenians, but also the Assyrians and Ottoman Greeks between 1914 and 1923 in what British sociologist Michael Mann called ‘the most successful murderous cleansing achieved in the 20th century’.
The purge of the Armenians coincided with the Anzac landing on 25 April 1915. Australian prisoners of war witnessed elements of the Ottoman Empire’s systematic extermination of 1.5 million Armenian people. Australian troops also took part in what was, perhaps, newly federated Australia’s first military relief effort—the rescue on the Syria–Palestine front in 1918 of survivors of the Armenian genocide.14 The Armenian genocide is denied by Turkey. The Commonwealth of Australia does not formally recognise it even though its first Australian Imperial Force witnessed it. Why? A supposedly shared national birthdate at Gallipoli with Turkey.
Australia and Turkey cling to that bond, that myth of national birth. Australia and Turkey even etched into stone the evocative words of the founder of the modern state of Turkey—Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, commander of the Ottoman troops who defeated the Anzacs at Gallipoli—offering consolation to the mothers of our dead.
Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives … You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country.
Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side here in this country of ours … You, the mothers who sent their sons from faraway countries, wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well.15
These soothing words that bond Australia and Turkey through the shared experience of 25 April 1915 are on a plinth on the Gallipoli Peninsula. They are also on another on the Griffins’ northern axis—the serene midway pleasance that war transformed into Anzac Parade.
There is no hard evidence (and plenty to the contrary) that Atatürk ever uttered those words. But myth has little toehold in fact. As Robins writes, ‘after all the bluster of the centenary [of World War I, upon which Australia spent more than $500 million] there is no mention of the genocide’ in the war memorial.16 Is it too much to hope that the memorial’s controversial $500 million expansion will be used to right this and other omissions?
Now I’m looking in the memorial’s World War II galleries. Appropriately, they evoke the many crimes Japan inflicted upon Australian prisoners of war. One of the most evocative photographs features a Japanese soldier poised to behead Australian special forces soldier Len Siffleet. Late in 1944 that photograph was found on a dead Japanese soldier. Many Australian veterans later privately said that this photograph, once it made its way through the ranks, contributed significantly to the evaporation of compassion and mercy towards Japanese prisoners and wounded. Numerous soldiers interviewed postwar spoke of bayonetting or shooting—rather than taking prisoner—surrendered Japanese.
The war memorial holds ample documentary, pictorial and other evidence of Australian atrocities committed against the Japanese. There are ‘trophy’ photographs of Australians posing with dead Japanese. There is a 1943 charcoal-on-paper drawing by artist Ivor Hele titled ‘Shooting wounded Japanese, Timbered Knoll’.17 But none of this is displayed. Former memorial historian Peter Stanley said he tried to have the Hele drawing hung but was told it was ‘too fragile’.
‘The summary shooting of wounded Japanese (and some who were not wounded) was not uncommon, if conspicuously unpublicised. The official war artist Ivor Hele’s charcoal drawing of the calm execution of stricken Japanese at Timbered Knoll in New Guinea in 1943 was long suppressed,’ Melissa Miles and Robin Gerster write in their book Pacific Exposures.18
Visitors to the memorial are drawn to the ongoing exhibition Afghanistan, the Australian Story (‘proudly supported by Boeing’), which opened in 2013. This was long after the first whispers of Australian special forces atrocities in Afghanistan were making their way to the veterans’ community, lawyers and some journalists.19 It is a compelling exhibition, featuring gripping audio visuals and exhibits that tell the story of Australian involvement in counter- insurgency, reconstruction, mentoring and combat operations. The danger of the operations is palpable.
But this exhibition is glaringly incomplete—perhaps even dishonest, now, by omission. In late 2020, after the release of the Brereton Report, it did not mention the alleged crimes of SAS troops involved in the Afghanistan operations. Perhaps even more remiss was a 2017 memorial exhibition, From the Shadows: Australia’s Special Forces. When the special operations commander Adam Findley opened the exhibition on 17 October 2017, the inspector general’s investigation into alleged SAS war crimes was already 18 months old. Monthly, more and more special forces troops were coming forward to inform on the alleged crimes of their brothers in arms or to admit personal complicity. And yet the alleged crimes did not feature in either the exhibition or much of the glowing associated media coverage.20
This, in part, goes to Nelson’s legacy at the war memorial. It demonstrates in starkest relief precisely how fraught is his decision to mount exhibitions on current deployments given the memorial’s mission is to help Australians interpret and understand the impact of war on their society. Such interpretations take time. Hot takes such as the memorial’s Afghanistan and special forces exhibitions are the very antithesis of sound military and social history.
So, might the memorial under new director Matt Anderson reflect the murder allegations against SAS soldiers, including Ben Roberts-Smith, in its public galleries? Or will they be left in the shadow of the memorial’s extensive archives like so much else that would tarnish the Anzac myth? Certainly the official history, currently being uncompromisingly researched and written at the memorial under the guidance of historian, author and former Australian Army officer Craig Stockings, will detail any such human rights abuses and attempts by our troops to cover them up.
Anderson, a former Australian diplomat in Afghanistan, said visitors to the memorial would expect to see the inspector general’s report ‘acknowledged and we will see to that’. There would be ‘appropriate treatment’ in the new galleries under the memorial’s $500 million redevelopment, he said.21 He described the memorial as ‘a place of truth’ and said the institution’s governing council ‘has every trust in our curatorial and historical teams and gives them free range to arrive at the best treatment of the subjects’.
Anderson, it seems, has the best intentions. But politics and a conservative board may yet get in his way. Barely a day later, Prime Minister Scott Morrison said, ‘The war memorial board [governing council], which has oversight over this … there’s a lot of people with a lot of experience on this [who] of course work closely with the war memorial director’.
All of which seems entirely consistent with the status quo at Australia’s most revered national institution, the Australian War Memorial. For, given its unwillingness to deal with difficult and ugly elements of Australia’s history of war, pre- and post- Anzac, how can it possibly confront more contemporary painful truths?
Paul Daley is a Sydney-based author, essayist and award-winning journalist who writes about history, Australian national identity and Indigenous culture in his column ‘Postcolonial’ for the Guardian. Allen & Unwin is publishing his forthcoming novel, Jesustown.
- Peter Cochrane, Best We Forget: The War for White Australia, 1914–18, Text, 2018, p. 159.
- James Robins, When We Dead Awaken: Australia, New Zealand, and the Armenian Genocide, 2020, pp. 195–7.
- See <https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/postcolonial-blog/2015/may/19/australian-war-memorial-the-remarkable-rise-and-rise-of-the-nations-secular-shrine>.
- See <http://honesthistory.net.au/wp/paradoxical-purchase-war-memorial-acquires-apy-defence-of-country-painting-kulatangku-angakanyini-manta-munu-tjukurpa/>.
- See <https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/postcolonial-blog/2018/may/23/manufacture-sell-deploy-commemorate-is-this-how-we-should-memorialise-war”>
- See <https://www.pm.gov.au/media/address-last-post-ceremony-australian-war-memorial-act>.
- See <https://afghanistaninquiry.defence.gov.au>.
- See <https://www.theage.com.au/national/police-launch-second-war-crimes-investigation-into-ben-roberts-smith-20191213-p53jpu.html>.
- See <https://www.aspistrategist.org.au/australian-army-rebuilding-special-forces-culture-ahead-of-afghanistan-war-crimes-report/”>
- See <https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/2020/aug/16/australias-special-forces-problem-why-the-sas-is-facing-a-crisis>.
- See <https://www.aspistrategist.org.au/australian-army-rebuilding-special-forces-culture-ahead-of-afghanistan-war-crimes-report/>.
- See <https://www.awm.gov.au/media/press-releases/michael-zavros-portraits-ben-roberts-smith-go-display>.
- See <https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/postcolonial-blog/2018/mar/25/100-years-after-the-battlefield-looting-the-shellal-mosaic-remains-controversial>; <https://www.awm.gov.au/commemoration/speeches/specialforces>; <https://www.theage.com.au/politics/federal/scott-morrison-says-the-australian-war-memorial-council-will-oversee-any-move-to-acknowledge-alleged-war-crimes-20201125-p56hqu.html>.
- See <https://www.theguardian.com/news/2015/apr/16/the-armenian-genocide-the-guardian-briefing>.
- See <https://www.theguardian.com/news/2015/apr/20/ataturks-johnnies-and-mehmets-words-about-the-anzacs-are-shrouded-in-doubt>.
- See <https://www.theguardian.com/news/2015/apr/20/ataturks-johnnies-and-mehmets-words-about-the-anzacs-are-shrouded-in-doubt>.
- See <https://www.awm.gov.au/collection/C170930>.
- Melissa Miles and Robin Gerster, Pacific Exposures: Photography and the Australia–Japan Relationship, ANU Press, 2018.
- See <https://www.awm.gov.au/visit/exhibitions/afghanistan-australian-story>.
- See <https://www.awm.gov.au/commemoration/speeches/specialforces>.
- See <https://www.theage.com.au/politics/federal/place-of-truth-war-memorial-boss-pledges-to-reflect-war-crimes-inquiry-20201124-p56hlb.html>.